I had been working on my most recent book for a while when I realized I still needed to figure out my main point. Started as a collection of conference presentations on topics related to writing style, the chapters seemed promising. I thought I could roughly double the length of the manuscript, elaborate on a few concepts, and, voilà, I’d have a finished “masterpiece.” One I hoped would earn me the full professorship that had thus far eluded me.
I had planned to make substantial progress during a semester-long sabbatical, but the writing process was interrupted almost immediately by Hurricane Harvey, whose flooding devastated Houston. Despite the storm, the brief interlude allowed me to rethink what was missing from my project. I recognized the need for a central argument that would bring the parts together. I decided to talk about style emerging from the author’s role as both writer and reader of their work and to use personal writing, especially in a new first chapter, to develop my claims.
To do so, I turned to a file of handwritten notes, letters, and short essays I had saved over the years. While the practice may seem slightly anachronistic now, I used to always make photocopies of my writing before sending it out. Today, the ritual has probably gone the way of composing on a legal pad, using a self-correcting electric typewriter, or editing with a pencil.
How did I use my writing to renew a view of style as a connection between the author reading and writing their work? Here are a few examples. In a thank-you to work colleagues for inviting me to a get-together, I tried to enact the first objective – forming a seamless web between reader and writer. The tone of the occasion was evident the moment I arrived. An open door, a smile, a handshake, a hug. Each gesture suggested warmth and welcome and an evening of celebration.
As reader-writer, my goal was to recreate my sense of anticipation, so I started by suspending the main idea until the end of the first sentence. To build momentum, I followed up with a fragment in which I placed the action in nouns (“smile,” etc.). By omitting the conjunction “and” before “hug” (called asyndeton), I was able to accelerate the pace and educe additional possibilities. I then reversed course, using polysyndeton (repeated “ands”) to slow things down, invoke the night’s positive qualities, and generate a sense of openness. The scheme of alliteration (e.g., “handshake,” “hug”) helped cement the cohesive reader-writer relationship.
The second principle, employing the link between reader and writer to build a foundation for a broader audience, can be seen in a letter to a former mentor about a career change: I just returned from the Garden of the Gods, one of my favorite places to visit on a clear Sunday morning. To the west lie Manitou Springs and the Manitou Incline, and then, Pikes Peak, majestic, snow-covered, silent. To the southwest is Cheyenne Mountain, its gentle slopes dwarfed by its towering neighbor, yet a unique, and vivid, summit nonetheless.
By including cumulative sentences in which the main clauses are expanded upon by free modifiers, the reader-writer builds a footing as secure as the mountains themselves, solidifying ideas while adding details. The choices work especially well for those who may not know the area, and they reflect how a readerly writer can respond to a broader audience’s needs by getting right to the point.
A final aim of the combined role is to help capture ephemeral moments indicative of constant change in our lives. The next excerpt, from a note to dinner-gathering hosts, illustrates the phenomenon: If any regret were to be expressed, it would be that the night had to end. Indeed, for just a moment, as I looked around the table, I felt it might last forever. Alas, it could not. I think, though, that certain things will endure. Laughter, friendship, memories of the past, and hope for the future will always be with us, just as they were an important part of that enchanted evening at your home.
My main strategy was to use periodic sentences, deferring the main idea until the end. Reader-writers who delay in this way can gesture toward the future hopefully, recognizing that important moments in life are often fleeting and set the stage for renewal.
These are not the only features of rebirth in my monograph. I also revisit events like 1964’s Great Alaska Earthquake, which I experienced, Hurricane Katrina, and the Covid-19 pandemic to show how stylistic changes result from shared natural disasters. What I have learned is that sometimes it’s important to look backward in order to move forward. Each of us may find the seeds of a writing renaissance in past work.